


i melt into you

by LtTanyaBoone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU bc That Episode never happened, F/F, Pining, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 01:50:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18511483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LtTanyaBoone/pseuds/LtTanyaBoone
Summary: "She still thinks it’s kind of funny, to watch the Sky People wrestle with the cold of winter. They all got very excited, when the first snows fell, playing outside in the cold for much longer than their garb was adequate for. They quickly learned that temperatures below freezing and getting wet were a bad mix, as evidenced by the large number of people that got sick and ended up visiting the healers for the coming week or two."





	i melt into you

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings/trigger warnings for: alcohol consumption and blood
> 
> this is an AU because i refuse to acknowledge that That Episode ever happened. also, that Flower Festival is like a late Valentine's Day, supposed to be celebrated when the first flowers are showing up and the snow of winter is finally melting and it turns into spring
> 
> (yes, i had originally wanted to post this for valentine's day. i guess i am late. slightly.)
> 
> ((also, if i have to do the trigedasleng spelling for octavia one. more. time. i will s c r e a m.))

She still thinks it’s kind of funny, to watch the Sky People wrestle with the cold of winter.

They all got very excited, when the first snows fell, playing outside in the cold for much longer than their garb was adequate for. They quickly learned that temperatures below freezing and getting wet were a bad mix, as evidenced by the large number of people that got sick and ended up visiting the healers for the coming week or two.

Leksa shifts, crossing her arms behind her back as she watches one of the Skaikru children roll a decent sized ball past the market stands, heading for a friend that is guarding a much larger sphere. She tilts her head, a smile tugging on her lips.

They call them ‘snow men’. The first time she heard it, it had been while walking past some Skaikru at the market. For a horrifying moment, she’d thought they were talking about the Azgeda, decorating them with coal, but then Klark had laughed and explained the tradition.

To be honest, it’s not entirely a foreign concept, to Leksa. Grounder children do something similar at times, though they don’t use spheres to make their figures, but rather pack on the snow with their hands, aiming for more diverse and realistic portrayals. Leksa remembers attempting a squirrel once, but it had been more of an oddly shaped lump. Onya hadn’t recognized what it had been supposed to be, and in her frustration at hearing her Fos laugh at her attempt, Leksa had aimed a swift kick at her work, sending snow flying in every direction.

Polis has a yearly sculpting competition in the middle of winter, at the Festival of Many Lights. Kriss-Mess, Klark called it. Apparently, it used to be celebrated by putting lights and ornaments on trees, Belomi told Leksa. They don’t do that anymore. Instead, they put lights and candles everywhere, to break the darkness of the winter nights and spread warmth. The people that came before, their ancestors, they used to exchange presents, as well, and the Grounders still do that, to an extent. Not like Skaikru does, where everyone picks up a gift for those they love. No, her people only gift the children, those not yet old enough to become a seken. Most of the gifts are treats, sweet food and candy, or in some cases, when trade is good, clothing.

She feels someone’s eyes on herself and tenses. Makes a show of shaking her arms and rubbing her hands, feigning cold, before she stomps her feet briefly and starts moving towards a market stall. One that sells mirrors, amongst other things. Leksa smiles at the woman running the stall and greets her, picking up a mirror and feigning interest in the carvings around the bone that is holding it while she uses the mirror to check who is stalking her.

And feels herself relax at the sight of Okteivia, Indra’s seken slinking back into the shadows again as a precaution. Leksa rolls her eyes. She’s already seen her, no need to hide anymore, though Okteivia probably has not realized that yet.

“Do you wish to gift it to Wanheda?”

The question of the stall owner makes Leksa’s eyes bulge, a blush spreading across her cheeks before she can reign herself in.

“I’m sorry?” she stammers, resisting the urge to hit herself on the forehead for that. She is Heda, for crying out loud. Heda does not stammer. Nor does she respond to such impertinent inquiries.

“I am sorry, Heda,” the owner murmurs, inclining her head as Leksa’s face hardens. “I just thought… The Flower Festival is coming. I did not mean to assume…” she trails off, flushing brightly as she looks away, bowing a little. “I apologize.”

Leksa swallows thickly, looking down at the mirror in her hands. It is a nice piece, she realizes. Good craftsmanship, judging by the details of the intricate carvings around the mirror. The many flowers of varying sizes.

Klark might actually like it, Leksa thinks. This trinket might manage to put a smile on her face, something that has been a rare occurrence lately. The longer the winter has been stretching, the more glum the blonde’s mood had seemed to become.

But Klark is Wanheda. She sits on Heda’s council, and Heda cannot allow to make a gesture that might seem like favoritism. Like she cares more about one member of the council than the rest.

The brunette bites back a sigh before her fingers go to the small coin purse at her hip.

“How much?” she asks and sees the stall owner’s head snap up in surprise.

“Nothing,” she quickly shakes her head, holding out her hands. “I could not take coin from Heda. Especially not if the purchase is intended as gift for Wanheda.”

Leksa rolls her eyes and weighs the mirror in her hand before pulling out three coins and putting them on the wooden table of the stand.

“Not for Wanheda,” she tells the woman, having decided that she will give the mirror to Indra. She missed the woman’s name day, the warrior having been deep in the woods, under the pretense of hunting. Leksa knows very well she’d just wanted to have a laugh at how badly Okteivia and the few other skaikru that have joined their gonas as seken would do, sleeping outside in the snow. By the time Indra and the others returned, too many days had passed and a gift for her birthday would have seemed strange, never mind that Indra would not have accepted it.

She will have to accept this one, though. It is tradition, you cannot turn down a gift presented to you during the Flower Festival. Partly because to do so, you’d have to figure out who gave it to you in the first place, and so far, Leksa can pride herself in rightfully claiming that only one person ever figured her out. Someone wonderful, with hair the color of the darkest night, and stars dancing in her honey colored eyes.

The Commander shakes her head and swallows thickly, pushing the memories down, for the time being. Thinking of Kostia is still painful, still leaves a lingering feeling of loss, still feels like a large splinter lodged behind her ribcage, being driven a little deeper with every beat of her heart. But it is no longer the all-consuming anguish it used to be. Memories of her no longer threaten to bring Leksa to her knees from the emotional pain they cause.

The brunette takes the mirror, putting it into her pocket and steps away from the stall, heading for the tower again. She has to admit, the cold is getting to her, and she wants to find a fire, to warm herself up again.

As she passes the nook Okteivia stepped into, to hide, she pauses, keeping her gaze forward.

“Would you like to join me, for lunch?” she asks, and hears Okteivia curse softly under her breath, before the brunette Skai person steps from the shadows, looking both angry and embarrassed.

“Yes, Heda,” she mumbles, allowing her hands to fall to her sides. Leksa shifts, feeling the corner of her mouth lift in a soft smile.

“Very well,” she nods, fighting the grin down as she starts walking again. She hears Okteivia fall into step behind her briefly, before the woman pushes even with her again, unhappy with her position of merely following Leksa.

She bites back the urge to arch her brow at the younger woman, instead glancing at her. She has aged. The thoughts hits Leksa, surprising her with the sadness that follows immediately in its wake. She remembers Onya telling her, about the Skaikru, when they first came down to the ground. Remembers the way she talked of them, like children. Even those that seemed oldest, who were definitely old enough to be Seken, seemed extremely young and naive and incapable of basic strategies of survival.

The first time she met them in person, Leksa had a similar feeling. Granted, by then, some time had passed, and the young Skaikru had started to harden with their experiences of the ground. Had started to grow up.

Looking at them now, there are some where the change is most obvious. Klark probably being the one that has gone through the most changs. But there is Belomi as well, and his sister. Seeing Okteivia then, the young, stubborn child that refused to take orders and had too much pride to be good for her, and looking at her now, the contrast is startling. She’s still stubborn, more than is good for her, perhaps. But she seems to have found a way of channeling her anger and resentment, of using it for her training.

Okteivia has certain grown into a headstrong woman. Leksa now looks at her sees an equal, and not longer a spoiled, bratty child. But then again, that might also have to do with her learning more about Skaikru, their customs, and in turn finding some of them rise in her estimation.

“How come you are not at the stables with the others?” she asks as they make their way to the tower, and hears Okteivia snort.

“Indra figured it would be better if I, sat this one out,” she hears the Skaikru woman answer. Turns her head and watches Okteivia clench her jaw. She arches her brow in silent inquiry, and much to her surprise, Okteivia deflates.

“Some of them, don’t know how to ride,” Okteivia tells her.

“I am aware,” Leksa nods, her brows knitting briefly as she wonders how long it will take, for most of Skaikru to learn to sit on horseback and get from point A to point B savely.

“I do,” the warrior pulls her from her musings on the lack of balance and body intuition that most the the Skaikru seem to have. “Indra… was, worried, that I would be too, pushy.”

This time, it is Leksa who lets out a snort.

Pushy. That is one way of putting it. Gloating, obnoxious and annoying would be others. She has seen Okteivia train. The woman is good, she is pretty skilled and she does not have the reservations about hitting some others have displayed. But she also knows how good she is, and it can make her… insufferable, at times. That is usually when Indra sends her off with some other task, when the Fos feels that Okteivia’s gloating and impatience is hindering the others, that it is keeping them from learning.

“Very well,” the Commander says, biting back a grin. “You may take lunch with me, then. And tell me more, about…” she pauses, her brows knitting in search of, something. Some topic that might have come up, in conversation, that Leksa wants to know more about. With Klark, she often ends up talking about medical things, like, Transfusions, and Ultrasounds, and all those things their tek can do. With Belomi, it is history. But with Okteivia, she keeps struggling to find a topic, to find somewhat of a common interest that they can talk about.

“Hm,” the other brunette hums, idly bending down to grab a handful of snow. Leksa watches her form a ball, weighing it in her hand, before Okteivia whirls around, throwing the cold missile, and hitting Kane square in the chest.

Leksa ducks her head, looking away so she will not be caught laughing at the Skaikru leader, but it is a close call. The man’s expression of utter shock and bewilderment had just been too much and she knows Okteivia heard her splutter before she could reign herself in.

“Octavia,” he sighs, nodding at the warrior, who merely arches a brow at him and crosses her arms, tucking her hands beneath her armpits, to warm her fingers again. Leksa straightens and inclines her head in acknowledgement and greeting.

“Chancellor,” she greets him, and watches Kane’s chest swell briefly with pride.

“Heda,” he returns, surprising her by using the Trigedasleng word. He usually calls her Commander, like most of the Skaikru. Heda is reserved for her people, it seems, and most of Skaikru does not consider themselves to be hers. They still think they are, different. Are outside, other, apart from the clans. Despite the brand on Kane’s arm, despite Klark residing in Polis and sitting on the council, as Ambassador of the Sky People, the Thirteenth Clan.

“Klark did not inform me of your plans to visit us,” she remarks, and sees Kane shift, a dark look crossing his face.

“Clarke didn’t know I was coming.”

“Is something wrong?” Okteivia asks immediately, her hand going to the sword at her hip, and Leksa feels herself tense as well.

“A word, Heda?”

“Of course,” she nods, extending her arm ahead of herself to signal to the Chancellor to lead the way, bracing herself for a very long day.

* * *

Wall-In-Teins-Dei.

Leksa frowns, reaching for the mug again and downing the rest of her drink. The alcohol burns on its way down and she presses the back of her hand over her mouth to keep from coughing.

Klark has been talking to Naila for the better part of the entire day. They’re sitting close together by the fire now, leaning towards each other as they chat. Leksa watches as the trader woman looks away again, her cheeks burning, even in the low light of the fire and candles.

The Flower Festival used to be one of her favorites. She used to look forward to it, to the traditions, to the gifts and happiness and just general celebrations of love and unity.

Right now, all Leksa feels, is resentment. Resentment towards the blonde grounder woman that has captivated Klark’s attention, who has been monopolizing her the whole day. Actually, Leksa thinks, her frown deepening even further, the scowl setting on her face. It’s been longer than just one day. When Naila arrived the night before last, Klark had already been asleep, but by the time Leksa rose the next morning, the two blondes had already been in deep conversation, Klark’s focus entirely taken up by the trader woman.

Leksa knows that Naila received a gift, from Klark. The Skaikru have different traditions, for their Wall-In-Teins-Dei. They give each other cards and little gifts, and they are not bound to secrecy. Some of them make their Wall-In-Teins guess, but most are obvious about who the gifts come from. Especially those that are courting.

And Klark was very obvious, about giving Naila a gift.

Leksa thought, whatever it had been, between the two light-haired women, that it was over. She’d deluded herself into thinking that Klark was no longer interested in the grounder woman, given that she seemingly made no attempt at reconnecting with her, once she was in Polis. That her, romp in the sheets with Naila had been born out of desire, an urge to, scratch an itch. Leksa is certainly no stranger to those, she gets it.

But watching them now, it is obvious that, at least for Naila, it was much more than a mere romp. The grounder has been flushing brightly every time Klark touches her and smiles at her, and Leksa could just-

Her hold on the mug tightens, the earthenware shattering in her grip, making her jump.

Leksa looks down in surprise, the shards falling from her hand as she opens it, pain licking up her arm. She lets out a hiss of pain and closes her eyes at the sight of dark blood welling forth from her palm.

“Excuse me,” she murmurs to no one in particular and turns on her heel, leaving the festivities of this final day of the Flower Festival.

Probably for the best, she thinks as she steps inside the tower again, and makes her way to the lift. Better she leave now, before she can get really drunk and embarrass herself further than she already has in her obvious preferential treatment of Klark thus far.

Inside the lift, she closes her eyes, fighting down the new well of tears. She has been so, stupid. She should have known, should have been very aware that Klark would never be able to forgive her for what she did, at the Mountain. Should have started to accept that, as far as anything beyond a tentative friendship was concerned, Leksa had ruined any chance at more by her betrayal of Klark and her people.

“Heda?”

“I am fine,” she mutters, holding up her uninjured hand to silence further inquiry by her guard as she walks down the corridor to her quarters. Down the hallway, at the end, are Wanheda’s rooms. She let Klark have the pick of any space in her tower, after she agreed to stay in Polis, as Skaikru’s ambassador. And Klark chose to live on the same floor as Heda. And Leksa, she’d been so stupid, and thought it might mean something. That it could be a sign, that Klark was learning to trust again, that she wished to be close to Leksa.

She’d been sorely mistaken, apparently. Klark only wanted to be close to keep an eye on Heda, to make sure she would not betray Skaikru yet again. Despite Leksa swearing up and down that she won’t, Klark’s people remain cautious, and Klark is especially distrustful.

Inside her own quarters, she slams the door shut behind herself and leans against it, closing her eyes as she draws ragged breaths, no longer forced to fight her emotions.

Leksa lets out a soft sob and reaches up to hide her face in her hands, before the wetness of her blood makes her pull them back and groan again at the sight of the cut across her palm.

She starts opening her coat and shrugs out of it as she goes to light the candles in her room, to better be able to examine the extent of the injury. It is not deep, but long, and there are a few smaller punctures crowded around the cut, as well.

The Commander takes a deep breath and goes to fill a bowl with water, to clean her injury and wrap it up. Once she’s done, she’ll have some food brought up, and more drink. Drink herself into oblivion, just for tonight. Naikou gave her a satchel a moon or so ago, with some leaves she can grind up. It is supposed to help her sleep, make sure she does not have nightmares. Leksa does not particularly like taking it, for the way her head feels the next morning, as if filled with straw. But she thinks perhaps tonight is a good time to get over herself and make use of the medicine.

She’s just finished half a flagon of wine and some bread, when there is a knock on her door.

Leksa glares at it, wishing very much to be allowed to wallow in self-pity. To have one night where she can just be herself and be sad about having lost her chance at ever being anything besides Klark’s Commander. But alas, she is Heda, and Heda does not get to nurse her heartbreak, it seems.

“Min yu op!” she calls, standing and emptying her goblet in the process. As she turns to look at whoever disturbed her, she feels her eyes widen in surprise.

She expected Titus. Maybe Indra. Perhaps Naikou.

She certainly did not expect Klark.

“Klark,” she murmurs, pulling her injured hand and the crude bandage she fastened around it behind her back, to hide it from the Skaikru ambassador. The last thing she needs, is for Klark to see the injury and get all, overbearing fisa on her. Leksa wouldn’t be able to tolerate her attention, her worry.

“Lexa,” the blonde replies, lips curling softly in greeting. Her eyes dart to the platter of cold meat and cheese Leksa had brought up, as well as the two flagons of wine.

The Commander watches the blonde’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise and sees her cast a look around.

“I’m, sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t meant to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” Leksa waves her off, kicking herself the next moment. Yes, she is. Klark is intruding on the valuable time she has allowed herself to wallow, for once. She should be kicking her out, especially since the blonde is the reason for Leksa’s current state.

“Would you like some?” she asks when she catches the blonde’s eyes returning to the table and hears a dozen voices inside her head scream at her. It’s a testament to her training that she does not flinch at the sudden onslaught, the sudden emergence of chaos inside her head. Well, the increase in it, anyway. Leksa’s not sure she’s been thinking all that clearly for the past day or so.

“No, thank you,” Klark shakes her head, now searching Leksa’s face. “Are you okay?” she asks, taking a step closer.

“Of course,” Leksa nods, turning to pour herself a new drink. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” Klarke replies, her voice gone soft. Leksa can hear her slowly make her way across the room and feels her heartbeat quicken in response.

“It’s just… you suddenly, disappeared.”

At that, the Commander lets out a snort.

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” she remarks, lifting her goblet to her lips again to take a deep drink. She’s well drunk now, her inability to hold her tongue proving it.

“I’m sorry?”

She whirls around at the sound of incredulity in Klark’s voice and rolls her eyes at her confused expression, the way it makes her brows knit adorably when she’s not sure if she should be offended by what was just said.

“Why do you not leave? I am sure Naila is getting concerned.”

“Why would- Are you for real?” Klark exclaims, throwing her head back and letting out a hollow laugh.

“Of course I am real,” Leksa frowns at the idiotic question, her head swimming. She’s pretty sure she heard that one before, and responded just like she did now, to the great amusement of the sky person who’d asked her that.

“She is my guest, Lexa,” Klark says, extending her arms to her sides. “I invited her to Polis. You were all talking about your stupid festival and I thought it would be nice to show her my gratitude. She did make sure I was not starving out there, you know.”

Leksa cannot help but scoff at the words, despite trying to clamp down on her reaction. She knows she’s being, unreasonable. Naila was there for Klark when Leksa wasn’t, and Naila never betrayed her. She took care of her, she became her friend, became something even more. Leksa is the one who betrayed Klark and her people, who ruined any chance at something between them. There’s no one to blame for this, besides herself, and certainly not an innocent trader woman who had no idea what she was getting herself into when she first met Klark.

“I didn’t know the, connotations, of this invitation,” Klark continues, allowing her arms to fall back down to her sides. “I didn’t know… no one told me, not a single one of us thought it prudent to mention, that the final celebration, that last evening, that it was about getting laid,” she hisses at Leksa.

“If just one of you had taken the time to point that out, I wouldn’t have asked her to come to Polis to celebrate it with me.”

Klark looks away with a sigh before reaching up to run a hand through her hair. It’s pretty like this, Leksa thinks, pinned back from her face in the manner Klark used to do when they first met, but with a few small braids in it now, courtesy of Okteivia and Raivon. The sight of it reminds Leksa of how soft it felt beneath her fingers, when she touched it as her lips were pressed to Klark’s-

Heda draws a sharp breath and shakes her head, clearing it from those thoughts.

“I am certain Naila is a, good companion,” she forces herself to say, her hackles rising at the thought of the other woman’s hands on Klark’s body. She mentally kicks herself for it. Whatever it was that happened between them, Klark has made it clear that she was the one who initiated it, and that it was wholly consensual. Otherwise, Leksa would have had Naila’s head a long time ago already.

“She is,” Klark agrees. “I’m just not interested in her, _companionship_. Not of that sort, at least.”

“Oh?”

Her breath stutters at those words, hope gripping Leksa’s heart so hard it’s actually painful. She finds herself staring at Klark’s beautiful face, unable to look away, her eyes darting from her wonderful blue eyes to the blonde’s soft mouth.

“No,” Klark chuckles, getting a goblet for herself and filling it with some wine. Leksa watches her hands shake slightly, but refrains from commenting. It must be a trick of the light, but she could swear that Klark’s cheeks are flushing under her gaze as Wanheda takes a sip of the wine, a surprised hum of pleasure escaping her.

“This is good,” she comments, looking down into the goblet before smiling at Leksa, who finds herself unable to keep from responding in kind.

“It is,” she agrees, relaxing a little. “It, was a gift, for my last Ascension Day.”

“Ah,” Klark hums, taking another sip. “Any reason, as to why you’re drinking alone?” she asks carefully, eyeing Leksa out of the corner of her eye.

The Commander lets out a deep sigh, shoulders slumping.

“It has been, a long day,” she finally says and reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose.

Klark’s shocked gasp makes her pause and look around, searching for danger, an intruder, anything that might have caused the blonde concern.

Instead of an enemy, Leksa finds Klark staring at her. More specifically, staring at the stained bandage she has wrapped around her hand.

Oh.

“What the hell-” Klark mutters, setting down her drink and striding over to take Leksa’s hand. “What happened?” she asks, carefully turning the Commander’s hand over and peering under the bandage.

“Nothing,” Leksa mumbles, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I, it’s, nothing,” she stammers, making Klark roll her eyes.

“Sit down,” the blonde tells her, gently pushing Leksa into the direction of her couch before Klark drops her hand, going about to gather supplies. Leksa sinks down onto the couch, watching as Klark disappears into her bathroom, and Leksa hides her face in her hand, chiding herself for not getting rid of the stained materials she used earlier, to clean herself.

Sure enough, when she returns, Klark is carrying the bowl Leksa used earlier, as well as fresh linen over one arm, and the stained one in the other hand.

“Wanna explain that?” she asks as she sets down the bowl of water and sinks down onto the couch next to Leksa.

“I, cut myself,” Leksa shrugs. “It didn’t require the attention of a fisa, so I took care of it myself.”

“Uh-huh,” Klark mumbles, peeling back the bandage and making Leksa hiss. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be playing around with your knife so much when you’re drunk,” she blonde remarks, her brows knitting at the sight of Leksa’s wound. “Thought this does not look like knife play gone wrong.”

She’s actually proud of herself, for being able to hold her silence this time. To not rise to the bait and tell Klark what exactly happened; how Heda sustained her injuries. It’s partially embarrassment, and partially spite that keeps her from speaking, but the combination of both is enough to override her ridiculous impulse to do anything in her power to please Klark and give her whatever she wants or desires.

Klark works carefully, cleaning the cuts a second time, making sure that there is nothing trapped in them.

“This long one… maybe stitching it would be better,” the blonde frowns, carefully prodding at Leksa’s palm. The brunette hisses, trying to pull back her hand as fresh blood wells forth from the cut, oozing from the wound. It had stopped bleeding before, but Klark’s poking and prodding made it start up again.

“No thank you,” Leksa shakes her head, the glare she receives for her, insolence, making her breath catch in her throat.

“Lexa.”

“Klark,” she tosses back, arching a brow at the blonde, who holds her gaze, nearly making Leksa squirm with the intensity of it.

“Fine,” Klark huffs, tossing the soiled scraps onto the floor. “But if it keeps opening, you are getting stitches. No argument.”

“Yes, Wanheda,” Leksa inclines her head, unable to keep the teasing note out of her voice. Klark gapes at her.

“You stupid-” she starts before cutting herself off. And quite literally throwing herself at Leksa.

The Commander lets out a rather undignified squeak of surprise, her hands going up to catch Klark as the blonde moves in and crashes her lips across Leksa’s in a sloppy but heated kiss.

Leksa’s cheeks flush in embarrassment at the moan that escapes her at the gesture, but Klark’s hands are on her, cradling her head and preventing her from pulling back. She slowly blinks and allows her eyes to close as her mouth opens under the pressure of Klark’s lips. The feeling of Klark’s tongue steals a whimper from Leksa’s throat and her hands go up, one to cradle Klark’s face, the other to twist onto the blonde’s shirt and attempt to pull her closer.

She hears the plate and goblets rattle softly on the table when Klark bumps it in her eagerness to get closer to Leksa. The Commander lets out a soft chuckle, a gasp of surprise leaving her when she feels Klark’s nails scrape the back of her head.

“Shut up,” Wanheda breathes before kissing her again, this time making Leksa see stars while Klark climbs into her lap, her fingers tugging on Leksa’s clothes in an attempt to find the weak spots and get inside them.

Leksa’s hands are burying into the material of Klark’s shirt, dipping under it to touch the heated skin of her sides and back.

“Moba,” she breathes when Klark jumps and Leksa realizes she’s probably smearing the pale skin with her dark blood, never mind ruining Klark’s garments.

“I said shut up,” Klark snaps and leans back, surprising Leksa when she actually grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it up and over her head.

Sure enough, there are smears of blackness on Klark’s side, but the blonde honestly does not seem to care in the least, given how incessantly she is pulling on Lexa’s top, trying to work out the ribbons that are keeping it closed. Before Leksa can even think to give her directions, Klark has the knife from the sheath at Leksa’s thigh in her hand and is cutting the material before dropping the knife to have her hands free in order to be able to divest Leksa of the ruined garment.

“I happened to like that one,” she remarks against Klark’s lips, giving the bottom one a playful nib. The blonde lets out a loud moan at that, her hips jerking against Leksa’s roughly and making the Commander’s eyes widen in surprise.

“I didn’t,” Klarke tosses back, kissing Leksa’s cheeks before she starts kissing down her throat, her tongue trailing across the Commander’s heated skin. Leksa lets her head fall back, allowing Klark easier access, before her hands find Klark’s hips and she pushes the blonde against herself.

“God, you’re-” Klark mumbles before she kisses her again, fingers tugging on Leksa’s bindings.

“Please do not use my knife on these,” Leksa chuckles, cradling the blonde’s head gently and touching her forehead to Klark’s.

“Then get them off,” Klark huffs.

“I will,” Leksa promises, leaning back to meet Klark’s eyes. The hunger in them makes her throat run dry, but then something shifts. Klark seems to soften, seems to grow smaller in Leksa’s lap. The blonde ducks her head, frowning at the bindings across Leksa’s chest and tugging on the material again.

“Off,” she murmurs, her voice gone hoarse.

“Sha, ai hodness,” Leksa whispers, brushing her lips over Klark’s in a gentle caress. Feels the blonde stiffen, Leksa’s heart slamming in her chest at the realization what words have just slipped past her control.

Klark’s Trigedasleng may leave something to be desired, but she has been making a lot of progress, sitting on the council, and her immediate reaction to Leksa’s words lets her know that the blonde understood perfectly well what it was the Commander just said.

“Lexa,” Klark murmurs, nudging her nose against Leksa’s.

“I know,” the Commander sighs, her hands falling away from Klark’s hips, despite the pain it causes her to let go of the beautiful woman. “I, I know,” she adds, looking away as tears burn in her eyes again.

Klark doesn’t care about her that way. She doesn’t love her as Leksa loves Klark. It’s, it’s fine. She gets it. She took Klark’s trust when she was vulnerable, when she was still grieving the sky person named Finn, and then she betrayed her. She betrayed Klark and her people, and no amount of atonement will ever wash away that stain upon their relationship.

“No, I don’t think you do,” Klark says, her voice trembling as she gently touches Leksa’s chin, turning her head back so Leksa will look at her, will have to meet her wonderful, clear blue eyes. Leksa has often thought of them, of the way they remind her of the skai, and how wonderful that is, given that Klark literally fell down from the skai to meet her.

“I love you,” Klark whispers, the words making Leksa’s eyes widen in shock, before a sob tears from her throat.

“Hey, sh,” the blonde murmurs, wrapping her arms around the Commander and holding her. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Lexa,” she mutters, kissing Leksa’s hair as the brunette just clutches at her helplessly and cries, months and months of longing and trying to hide her feelings crashing down on her hard.

“Hey, hodness,” Klark mutters, the word not quite fitting into her mouth. It sounds strange and stilted and it makes Leksa let out a teary chuckle as she leans back, reaching up to wipe at the tears with the back of her hand. “I mean it, you know?” Klark insists as she meets Leksa’s green eyes again.

She can feel her cradle her face, Klark’s thumbs stroking gently over Leksa’s cheeks. The Commander reaches up with one hand, fingers wrapping around Klark’s wrist as she turns her head to kiss Klark’s palm.

“I mean it, too,” Leksa whispers, meeting her gaze again, her heartbeat stuttering in her chest. “Ai hod yu in, Klark kom Skaikru.”

Klark’s lips curl into a soft smile, though there are tears brimming in her eyes before she leans in again. Ducks her head to kiss Leksa anew, taking her time for a change.

It’s softer, this time. So much gentler, and careful, and sort of, testing the waters. Leksa lets out a relieved sigh and kisses back, her heart soaring when Klark’s back arches and the blonde presses closer with the softest whimper. Leksa wraps her arms around her tightly, hugging Klark against herself as she kisses her over and over again, the urgency of moments ago having left them. That was when they both thought this would be a, a one time kind of thing. They know now, what the other feels. Know that this, it’s only the beginning for them.

_fin._


End file.
